


Angelic

by mistrali



Category: Frasier (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27448117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistrali/pseuds/mistrali
Summary: Daphne looks like an angel when she bakes.Set in S1.
Relationships: Niles Crane/Daphne Moon
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	Angelic

Daphne looks like an angel when she bakes. The tip of her nose doesn’t have icing on it, she isn’t covered in flour, her red apron is spotless (gingham, how quaint - Maris would have worn some starched white Gucci affair) and the grated lemon zest is where it’s meant to be. Positively radiant. Nigella Lawson, Martha Stewart and Mary Berry couldn’t compare. Not that he watches baking shows himself, of course. No, far too plebeian. They’ve just happened to be on television at 8:30 the last three nights, when Maris has collapsed into her armchair with fatigue after lifting one-pound weights in their rarely-used home gym.  
  
“More champagne?” Daphne asks, beaming.  
  
“Oh, no, don’t go to any trouble,” says Niles. If only he’d managed to procure those two tickets to the opera last week he’d have a cast-iron excuse to leave. Now he has to be just intoxicated enough to appear convivial, yet not so inebriated that he makes a fool of himself by confusing his Chateau Lafitte with his Cheval Blanc.  
  
“It’s no trouble,” she says cheerfully, in that charming Manchester drawl. “The salad and the chicken are ready, the steaks are in the oven and the pavlova’s almost done. Be a love and take these hot dogs out. Your father said his old squad might drop by.”  
  
“Well, isn’t that just the cherry on the Christmas cake.”  
  
How very erudite. What will he say next, “You look like the cat that got the cream”? Normally colloquialisms are Dad’s province, but Niles is so starry-eyed around Daphne — in a platonic way, of course — that his usual careful command of the English language has entirely deserted him.  
  
“Oh, Dr Crane, it’s Christmas. Let Mr Crane have his fun.” She whisks egg whites and icing sugar into a froth, humming in a key that should sound unappealing but somehow manages to convey the jingle of bells, choral plainsong and the dulcet strains of Korngold's _Märchenbilder_ all at once.


End file.
